


Sancho Panza

by Rocinan



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa Lives, Don Quixote references, Implied/Referenced Torture, Lots of scars, M/M, References to Illness, Scarification
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:20:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25799614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rocinan/pseuds/Rocinan
Summary: Berlin returns to the monastery a different man. But Martín had never been in love with Andrés for the way he looked.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 14
Kudos: 64





	Sancho Panza

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to do a one-shot for this fandom, and was deciding between this idea or "What if Sergio and Raquel were hamsters??" This one won out. So here it is! A one-shot I thought would be shorter.
> 
> Warning: mentions of torture, graphic scars, a lot of self-indulgent H/C

The monastery did not hold good memories for Martín. It was more or less a monument of all that he had and lost, a glorified grave of the man he’d once been. Maybe because that man had been so tied to Andrés. And he’d given so much of himself to Andrés that there was nothing left of Martín except the worst of the worst. The best of him, he liked to believe, died in a Mint he never touched. 

It left him a bereft man. Perpetually numb to the world’s tilt. But the Earth spun on whether he wanted it to or not. He was only one man among a million on this wretched Earth. But back then, perhaps now still, Andrés had been the Earth itself to Martín. To at least one man among a million, Andrés had meant as much.

Martín was not proud of it. Far from it. But he’d grown tired of mourning Andrés. He’d mourned him when he lived, mourned him when he died, and spent so many years doing so he no longer knew who he was grieving- Andrés or himself. He once thought he didn’t exist without Andrés, and he dared to think Andrés thought the same.

But that dream shattered in his face. No, Andrés had always existed without Martín. And with a sneer, Martín wondered if it was only through the grace of Andrés’ pity that he had been allowed a taste of the other man’s shadow. 

It was like a drug, an _aphrodisiac,_ that pretentious bastard would say. That was why Martín could not hate the monastery despite the dread it conjured in his bones. All for a whiff of Andrés’ ghost. He wouldn’t have agreed to meet Sergio here otherwise. The only blessing was that he slept in a different room than he did five years prior.

Still, he wandered into Andrés’ old chambers, usually in the dead of night, when he was sure the rest of Sergio’s team was asleep. Martín didn’t do it because he liked to, not even because he wanted to. Rather, something bitter and spiteful pushed him in, forced him to look at the table where he’d cried, the arc of wall where Andrés had left him dying, and worse yet-- the places where they’d laughed, something true and holy between them both.

For a time, however miniscule, this had been a sacred space that Martín was worthy enough to share. It made him cackle now. Not the bright chuckles that once filled these halls. Only an ugly chortle from a rotting man. What right had Andrés to decide if Martín was worthy? And what right had Martín to think himself worthy?

Martín forced himself to look on Andrés’ collection of riches- paintings and books and whatever else he deemed worthy of stealing- and thought of the owner that would never return. And what of it? These things didn’t belong to him anyway. But without him, they were useless, nothing but offerings inside a tomb. 

Sergio was a son of a bitch for keeping it clean, keeping everything as it was five years ago. Not a detail wrong. Maybe as some cosmic way to taunt Martín. Because he _had_ considered making himself the final sacrifice in Andrés’ tomb. A gun to the head. An apology for letting Andrés leave that night. A punishment for Andrés leaving him that night, for daring to think he knew what was best for Martín. He imagined his blood splattering against the portrait of Andrés’ face so he could at least tarnish one thing of his.

But those were empty thoughts. Martín could never bring himself to sully anything of Andrés’. Nor did he want to anymore. Whatever delusions he once had of Andrés, they were gone. 

Once, Tatiana had said to them _, “Oh look, it’s Don Quixote and Sancho Panza.”_

It had been a sunny morning, Martín remembered, a picture perfect hour to have breakfast under the sky. She’d meant it as a taunt, and he’d laughed because it had been funny. From a distance even, he and Andrés could have looked the part. 

_“Does that make you Dulcinea?”_ Andrés had replied with a peck to her cheek.

Martín snorted, the memory of spring laughter fading away. He was in the hall, candlelight flickering against shadows of rain. It was night, not morning, and rain was sweeping the building from outside. Accents of thunder followed. Andrés would have loved it. Martín’s memories of him were stronger here, but for the past two years, he hadn’t really thought of him. It had only been “Andrés would have loved this” or “Andrés would have hated this,” because he told himself to let Andrés go. But that had been a lie- he’d hoped, however shamelessly, that Andrés would return and seek him out.

That would never happen now.

Andrés died chasing his windmills, forever searching for a Dulcinea that did not exist. He lived in his head, wrapped in clouds and smoke, all too happy to replace the world with a vision of his own. And Martín followed him. He followed Andrés up the windmill and cheered on his quest for glory, even when he knew there was nothing but the smack of wooden panes awaiting them ahead. 

But the story finished when Quixote died, crushed in the end by the very dreams he crafted. There was no Dulcinea and only Sancho Panza remained. And no one ever thought to ask what became of Sancho Panza. Where did that leave him, then? Without the Don by his side?

The windmill was only a windmill to Martín. He was never one to dream. He hadn’t believed in love, in hope, in all those things a happier man would have. But he had believed in Andrés. And for a time- over a decade lost to a smoky dream- it had been enough. He had been his squire, his friend, his-

“La concha de tu madre,” Martín murmured.

Fuck it. He’d never even read _Don Quixote._ The wine he’d devoured earlier must have been taking effect, maybe coupled with the chill of rain. Or even the musty air of the chapel itself. 

Sergio couldn’t have staged his classroom anywhere else? It was enough to sit in this hall by day. By night, it was something else entirely, a portrait of purgatory straight from the biblical description of Martín’s personal hell. He marched past the empty chairs and without looking twice at the model of the bank (which he really couldn’t care less about), he turned to stare Andrés in the face.

It was a portrait of the artist that Andrés had devoted himself to for weeks. Black, white, and shades of grey. He’d meant to add color, Martín remembered, but he never got the chance. Martín had told him that cameras existed, but Andrés ignored his taunts. He wanted to immortalize himself in a different way, like the masters before him. More permanent, he’d said, an ode to the act of art.

 _“Maybe I should gift this to you,”_ Andrés had said with a grin, _“what do you think, Martín? Hang this in your bedroom.”_

 _“Great idea,”_ he’d replied _, “I’d love getting off to it.”_ And they’d doubled over laughing, cackling so hard they had to catch each other from falling. 

Andrés never even had the chance to sign it. Martín watched him, waiting for the eyes to blink. He touched a cheek, chiseled with shadow, half expecting to feel warm flesh. But Andrés remained oil on canvas.

It was a good likeness of him, perhaps a more accurate remnant of Andrés than all of Martín’s memories combined. The man in the painting was cold, a touch sad. Less what Andrés wished to be, what Martín saw, and more what Andrés was all along. There had always been something ghostly in his eyes, a dash of fatigue and hidden pain, a sure sign that he always knew he wasn’t long for the world. As if those painted lips were telling Martín, _“I was never built to last.”_

He put a hand to the mouth, hoping to silence its unwanted words when the doors swung open, a flood of lightning and wind sweeping in. Then the wood slammed shut and only the rush of muffled rain sounded in Martín’s ears.

But he’d already turned by then, alerted to the intrusion.

He was about to shout, but the curse died in his mouth when distant thunder echoed next. Instead, he gulped. There was a shape huddled by the door, the shivering figure of a man fumbling with the handle. And Martín knew for a fact this man was not part of Sergio’s little band of thieves. But there were no signs of a monk’s robes.

From where he stood, Martín could only glimpse a soaked trenchcoat and a hat’s wide brim, the rest of the intruder lost in shadow. A tramp then, he thought, looking for shelter from the rain. But who would look for shelter here of all places? He felt himself tremble, a building rage churning in his veins-- some thief had thought to come here, to _his_ tomb (their tomb), and desecrate what little of Andrés remained. 

The man rested against the doors for a good minute more before he shoved himself off. And cradling an arm, he began limping down the hall, one step at a time towards Sergio’s makeshift classroom. But he’d yet to notice Martín. Halfway through his journey, he shrugged the coat off, tossing it aside like a pile of rags. He was slow, doubling over from some ailment, and Martín wondered if he was only drunk after all. In which case he’d just kindly kick the bastard back out.

But he doubted the tramp was drunk on wine. Beer, maybe, or more likely, drugs.

Almost a decade ago, Andrés had ordered a bottle of red wine in Martín’s honor. He’d called it a celebration of their partnership, an anniversary to their brotherhood. Perhaps because calling it the anniversary of their friendship was too “womanly” a descriptor for him. Andrés had been drunk that night too. And Martín had remembered nothing but the restaurant’s dim light, a shred of candle fire against Andrés’ grin. 

And the more he thought of Andrés, the less forgiving Martín felt. 

“The fuck are you doing here?” he finally found the voice to say, a snap of sound booming out.

The intruder froze, lifting his head to look at Martín for the first time, as if finally noticing the other man’s presence. Martín saw a scarf around his jaw, everything else obscured by the shadow of his hat. There might as well have been no face at all. 

“I said, what the fuck are you doing here?” Martín said again, marching up to him with a growing unease within. “Who the fuck are you!?”

When there was still no answer, he pulled back a fist and swung. Perhaps to prove that there really was a man here and Martín hadn’t become insane enough to imagine him. Even so, it shocked him to feel solid cloth and skin touch his knuckle. 

The tramp, thief, whatever he was, fell back, knocked clean off his feet by Martín’s blow. His side slammed against the floor, a harsh crack reverberating off each wall. He coughed. Once, then twice. And Martín loomed over him, rattled by his own breath.

The brim of his hat was torn, likely ruined by dust and age. But Martín found himself trapped by what he saw underneath. Eyes in the candlelight, a bold pair of black he could never mistake. He saw them only in dreams for the past five years.

The man was still trembling, but Martín knew himself shaking too, clenched hands threatening to shudder off their wrists. Only one word, one name, was in his mind. He knew it even before the man spoke.

_“Martín?”_

No, he thought, no. No, please, no.

“It is you.” The other man put a hand to his doubtless aching chest, voice muffled by the scarf binding his face from the nose down. But he made no move to stand. “Martín, how are you?”

And those eyes smiled. Once, Martín would have died for a hint of that smile. It was an illusion, he told himself, a cruel figment of his fucking imagination.

But he knew that dulcet tone, knew that only one man had a tongue like coffee, bitter black coated in far too much cream. It was raspier now- wispier- but _his_ nonetheless.

 _“Andrés,”_ he whispered, almost afraid the figure before him would disappear if he said its name aloud. But maybe he wanted it to disappear.

“I’m afraid so.” Andrés- Andrés, who was alive, and sitting before him- chuckled, a few of his laughs twisting into coughs. “Pardon me. I haven’t conversed in a while.”

Martín knelt by him, still expecting Andrés to wash into smoke should he come too close. But Andrés remained- in the flesh- when he touched his shoulder, now seeing the faded clothes, a crumbling outfit some sizes too big for him. 

“How?” Martín asked, too shocked to process much else.

“Ah, it’s a long story, my friend.”

 _My friend_. But Martín felt no joy from his words, only a hollow ache that cut open every old wound he’d failed to nurse. He wanted to kick Andrés down again, to throttle him for daring to die, for all the grief and pain he’d left in his martyring wake. And most of all, for that night in this exact spot, five years ago when he’d taken everything of Martín’s and never looked back.

Fuck you, fuck you, he wished to say.

“Are you okay?” Martín said instead, and to his regret, realized he meant it.

He never had to look down on Andrés before, never thought there would come a day when he’d tower over the other man. It had always been the other way around. He’d tilt his gaze upwards when Andrés was next to him, basking in his presence like a pathetic dog. Andrés had been the sky and sun in one, all that Martín wished he was and would never have. 

Andrés was tall, proud, strong.

Martín’s chest knotted. The man before him was not Andrés, not anymore. He saw him clearly now, this new man. He ran his eyes over the shaking hands, the limp arm, the pathetic frame, every inch of pride squeezed out until all that remained was a stranger he no longer knew. It would be a miracle- and then some- if this man ever stood tall again.

“Are you?” Andrés asked.

Martín knew the answer then. He put his arms under Andrés’ own and pulled him up, hands bumping against the jut of the other man’s ribs. Andrés did not protest, half of him sagging against Martín while the latter walked him towards the bed in the corner. Shoulder brushing canopy, Martín eased Andrés onto a corner and sat down beside him.

“Were you here this whole time?” Andrés said.

There might have been a hint of remorse in his voice, but Martín didn’t dare hope. Not anymore. 

“I left the same night you did.” Martín wiped his hands against the coverlet, rubbing the rainwater off. “Your brother’s been keeping this shit clean… did you see him yet?”

Andrés shook his head. “No, he- is he here?”

“You didn’t know?”

There was no answer. If this was a joke, Martín found it a rather inspired one. If by pure coincidence, Andrés had returned to the monastery so soon after Martín himself decided to appear. Fate, then, brought them together, just as Andrés had said. He dug his nails into the cover, again feeling a sting of rage. 

“One of your teammates got caught. That Rio kid. Sergio gathered us to save him. Well, I’m just in it for-”

 _Our plan,_ he almost said. But he bit his tongue. “-the Bank of Spain. That’s the plan he’s going with.”

If Andrés had any thoughts about this development, he made no remark. For a moment or two, Martín only heard the sound of muted rain. The brewing storm might as well have been in his head. He felt pitiful waiting for Andrés to speak, no different than the idiot he’d been five years ago.

“Thank you,” Andrés said, “for helping them. I can’t imagine it was easy for you.”

 _It wasn’t,_ Martín wanted to snap.

“I did it for you,” he replied, unable to stop the fucking truth from tumbling out.

“Martín-”

“I don’t want to talk about it. Not now. So don’t fucking ask.”

Martín had never been brave enough to imagine the possibility of Andrés coming back. It felt anticlimactic, then, not to say more. But what was expected of him? He couldn’t see himself jumping for joy, flying into Andrés’ arms, and acting as if nothing at all had transpired. Not when all he felt was grief twofold. He didn’t have the energy for it. Maybe it was a dream after all, but he lacked the will to wake up. 

But Andrés was indeed next to him, and Martín could not turn back time.

So turning to look Andrés in the eye, he said, “I’m the only one with any right to ask questions. What happened to you? You’re dead, Andrés, you were dead.”

“Hm. I suppose I was.” Andrés rubbed his damaged arm, pausing for a shiver to course through. “That was how it appeared.”

His eyes drifted to the ceiling, and he spoke on, as if recounting someone else’s tale. “Whatever Sergio told you, it’s true. I did stay behind. And I did feel, I think, five, six bullets here and there. More, perhaps. You could call it a blessing or a dose of poetic irony, that the enemy had such poor aim.”

Andrés laughed, the same chuckle that tortured Martín in his sleep.

“I woke up. They were quite kind to me at first, but I hadn’t expected it to last. I was dying anyway, Martín.”

He said it as if Martín should have already known. Martín bit his lip, hard enough to feel blood. In the end, he’d heard about the illness from Sergio’s mouth, two years after the fact. He touched his bobbing knee, hoping to quell the acting nerves.

“And the interrogators weren’t so stupid as to believe I wanted to live. Desperation pushes men and women to their limits. I learned this firsthand. But what could I tell them? My brother’s plans? The heist already ended.”

Martín imagined a crooked grin behind that scarf, a flash of teeth that told him Andrés couldn’t have cared less about the past two years.

“They were obligated to keep me around, but you have no reason to mind a dying man’s comfort. So as expected, I was witness to some unpleasant interactions.”

_Enough with the bullshit._

“Just say it, Andrés. I’m not fucking five years old. They wanted to know where your brother was. So they tortured you. That’s two years. Over seven-hundred days- fuck, how are you alive?”

Martín swallowed a string of curses, the thump of his heart mixing with the drum of rain. He dug a hand into Andrés’ scarf, the threads wet and coarse, nothing like the silk he recalled. He wanted to shake some sense into the other man, to tell him that something like this- whatever he had been through- was worth more than an uncaring grin, that Martín was worth more than a sideways smirk, a casual “how are you?”

Quixote could not just wander back in after all the damage he’d wrought and taken and expect Sancho to remain his faithful servant. Such things should not be allowed. Martín would not allow it. Andrés had left him burning in hell. He did not have the right to speak to Martín’s corpse and ask for an answer.

But Andrés had always been this way. 

“Calm yourself, Martín.” Andrés laughed again, or perhaps coughed. “Maybe luck was on my side, or I was sturdier than I gave myself credit for.”

Pain never seemed to touch him. Martín used to wonder if Andrés could feel it at all, if he had any thoughts to spare for damaged flesh and blood. He could break a finger and boast about having nine more. He’d rather smile than cry, rather laugh than weep. And it had always been down to Martín to hurt for him.

“You said that Rio was captured. That might have been why I was able to escape, not easily, but not impossibly.”

The bits of memories came back, foggy pieces in the back of his mind. The rain, he recalled. Then the dim restaurant. The bottle of wine that Andrés had only sipped. He’d chuckled and said he had business to mind. Martín could find him later in his room. 

“You were dying,” Martín spat, “why did you bother leaving?”

Then Andrés had stumbled out, laughing over his drunk steps. And when Martín plugged the cork back into their unfinished wine, he glanced at the empty chair across. Andrés had pushed it in. And Martín, still thinking of wine and the nectar of Andrés’ smile, pulled it back out, compelled to touch the same spot he’d sat. 

“I had two years to think it over,” Andrés told him, “I had no plans to leave the Mint, but seeing as fate graced me with a second chance, I-”

There had been blood on the chair, dark, wet, and likely from a wound on the side. Andrés had never been drunk. But Martín had known Andrés too well to confront him over it, had known better than to poke at his idiotic pride. Instead, he dropped a napkin over the seat and left, seeking out Andrés as he promised, something aching within him all the while.

And Martín was still aching now.

“I wanted to see you again,” Andrés finished.

“What makes you think I want to see you?”

It hurt to say, and Martín hoped it hurt to hear. Instead, he felt Andrés’ trembling hand on the back of his head, thin fingers pressing against his hair.

“Nothing, my friend. It was only a selfish whim, one that evidently kept me alive.”

Martín shut his eyes, shoulders suppressing a shudder. Andrés had always been this way, yes. He liked to believe himself an authority, the source of all comfort and control. Even falling apart at the very seams, Andrés thought himself capable of fixing everyone else.

But the words selfish and selfless, they simply didn’t exist in Andrés’ world. There was only what he could and couldn’t do. The problem was- and had always been- that Andrés thought he could do anything.

If Sergio burst in right this second and told them they could save Rio by sending Andrés back, Berlin would follow him out. Perhaps without a second thought.

But the word _selfish_ existed for Martín. And he knew now he would fight tooth and nail to keep Andrés here, everyone else be damned, Andrés himself most of all.

“You son of a bitch,” Martín said, “don’t touch me.”

When Andrés removed his hand, Martín opened his eyes, gaze on his feet. “If you knew where your brother was, would you have told them?”

He was answered with a chuckle. Andrés adjusted his hat. “Maybe. I would have done anything to avoid this haircut. I’ll spare you the sight.”

Martín’s hand was still on the scarf. He put both fists against it, clutching while he kept his head bowed. A bead of water gathered at the tip of his nose. He blinked the wetness away.

“You’re lying,” he accused, “you knew where he was this whole time, and still-”

The fucking ache would not subside. It only expanded, slicing to the bone. 

“Martín, why would I lie-”

“Shut up!”

And finally, he looked up at Andrés, at the blatant pain in his gaze. “Shut up. I always knew when you were lying. I just- I could never tell why, fuck.”

Andrés whispered in reply, but new thunder drowned him out.

“The last time I was here,” Martín said, “you lied to me, you looked me in the eye and lied like a son of a bitch, and I still don’t know why. I don’t- I don’t want to know why anymore.”

He felt hands on his own, Andrés’ quivering palms squeezing his fingers around the scarf. 

“What did I lie about?” Andrés asked, but he might as well have asked Martín what the weather was like.

_Not loving me back. And I had no choice but to believe you._

Martín shook his head. “I said- shut up. I ask the questions here.” The scarf was coming apart in his grip, near shreds. “How did you get here?”

“Old tricks,” Andrés replied, and then with the slightest hesitation, “very old tricks. I stole, I waited-”

Martín released the scarf, slipping out of Andrés’ shaky grip when he heard the last word:

“-I begged.”

And again, Martín had to steady his breath. He’d mistaken Andrés for a vagabond at first. Andrés, who had always prided himself a gentleman, a patron of luxury who would sooner die than suffer shame. With some horror, Martín wondered if he’d passed Andrés in the streets, if he’d tossed a coin into that hat and ignored its ill owner without so much as another glance at the beggar’s face. 

“To see me again?” Martín said blankly, “I don’t believe you. Since when did I matter that much?”

“Believe what you will. You have as much right.”

He supposed it worked both ways- Andrés could always tell when Martín lied as well. It was as if he was seeing through Martín as he spoke, and again trying to soothe the burning wounds. But Martín did not want to be soothed. He only wished to lash out and show Andrés all that he’d ruined. But every flare of anger was replaced with a flash of hurt.

It would be easier if Andrés raged back. If he showed some sign of sorrow or fear, perhaps Martín would leave him be. But Andrés never made things easy, least of all for Martín.

“Andrés,” he said next, “take off the hat. And this-”

He gestured at the scarf. “Show me.”

Andrés stiffened. But he did not speak, some semblance of dread finally emitting from his frame. Then he cocked his head and said, “Later, Martín. I would hate to be the cause of unpleasant dreams tonight.”

“I haven’t had a pleasant dream since the night you left. So cut the crap and do it!”

Martín reached forward, clawing for the scarf when Andrés backed away.

 _“If you insist,”_ Andrés said lowly, a threat seeping out. 

He stood, feet unbalanced while Martín waited from his seat. Andrés shuddered, and walked on, back to Martín as he approached the portrait of his face. He grabbed the edge of the hat and slid it off. When it touched the ground, Andrés had reached the painting.

Martín saw a buzz cut from the back of Andrés’ head, dark hair shorn to the scalp. But when Andrés snatched the ends of his scarf, Martín could not deny he felt a hint of fear, more for how he’d react than what he would see. In truth, he had never considered the possibility of Andrés looking less than perfect, anything short of beautiful.

And it occurred to him then that this- all of this- was cruelty for cruelty’s sake. What difference would it make if he saw what lay beneath the scarf? Or had he fallen so far that humiliating Andrés- the man he claimed to love- was all he wanted? In an instant of clarity he hadn’t felt for over five years, he realized this was not Martín. This was not Martín.

“Wait, Andrés-”

But the scarf fell before Martín could tell him to stop. Andrés turned around and all other words died in Martín’s throat.

The skin wrinkled around the corner of Andrés’ mouth, a pinkish burn that stretched from his upper lip to the end of his left eyelid. A scar ran across the bridge of his nose, jagged and thick as it met another slice zipping up from the jaw. Clusters of cuts clung to the mouth Martín kissed, remnants of what appeared to be thread- as if the lips had once been sewn shut. And still more scratches spread themselves out, glaring spots of decaying skin and bits of bone, carved to an imperfection too violent to be anything but intended.

Andrés stood by his portrait, the handsome face Martín knew- sculpted features and proud eyes, a picture of beauty that would always be just that, a picture.

“How do I look?” Andrés asked, mauled lips twisting into a ghoulish grin. “I have the face to match the soul now. Like Dorian Gray in reverse, no?”

But the eyes were the same. The same piercing gaze Martín knew. Andrés was staring at him, as if waiting for Martín to recoil or curse.

He would have no such luck.

Martín shoved himself off the bed, and he marched straight to where Andrés stood, as he had five years prior. Then, he had felt a thrill of fear, but he’d been willing to brave it for a single chance. He didn’t care for any chances now.

“Sergio said you needed injections,” he told Andrés, unwilling to break his stare, “how long’s it been since you had one?”

He didn’t answer Andrés’ question. He had no reason to oblige.

“A while,” Andrés answered, still sporting that grin.

Martín grabbed his wrists before Andrés could react. He steadied the quivering hands, rubbing his fingers up Andrés’ palms and around chipped nails. He felt for calluses, new scars, little etches and bumps that marred those hands, once so mesmerizing in Martín’s eyes. And in spite of his best efforts, Martín could not contain Andrés’ trembles for long.

“I wouldn’t have cared if you were sick.” Martín swallowed. “I loved you too much to. I would have taken care of you. You could piss your pants every day and I wouldn’t have given a fuck.”

His grip clenched. Then he released Andrés. And caught him again with hands around the back of his head, the line of his scarred jaw. Martín stepped forward, and he supposed Andrés knew what would happen if he didn’t move back.

Andrés stayed where he was, mouth parting to allow Martín in. And Martín’s lips pressed to his own, meeting ragged flesh again and again. He remembered the warmth of Andrés’ lips, the plush pink he once felt. He kissed scars now, desperate as he moved his lips over Andrés’ mouth, as if he could remove every stitch and bit of drying blood. But Martín did not stop there, could not stop there.

His mouth brushed the scar dashing across the cheek and its twin cutting through the nose. His lips touched every piece of shredded skin and ravaged flesh, every remnant of pain upon Andrés’ face.

And releasing him with a pant, Martín gasped, something blurry in his gaze, “What happened to you?” 

His breath came out ragged, brow touching the other man’s, a spot of fever on Andrés’ skin.

“Nothing I didn't deserve,” Andrés said, quiet, and then a smile, “And I can’t say I didn’t provoke them.”

Pain never touched Andrés. And it was always down to Martín to hurt for him. To shoulder twice the pain. He hurt because Andrés couldn’t. He wept because Andrés wouldn’t. 

And he wept now, teeth clenching as he felt the tears spill, rough and angry as they broke out. His hands remained in Andrés’ hair, and unwilling to stifle the sob any longer, Martín hung his head, allowed it to lean against Andrés’ chest. 

“Martín, I’m back now. What reason have we to worry? It’s over.”

He heard the chuckle in Andrés’ throat, somewhat forced, as shaking arms pulled him into an embrace. Andrés was again stroking his crown, trying to wrap Martín in a presence he did not have. But Martín did not feel comfort from his arms. He felt the bones behind Andrés’ skin, imagined the bruises clinging to him beneath his clothes. Even now, it was still Andrés trying to hold him up. 

“Shut the fuck up,” Martín hissed.

And clutching Andrés’ shoulders, he lifted his gaze, the tears still streaming out. And rather than sobbing again, Martín laughed.

“Remember what you said about mitochondria?” he said, breaths between laughs, “Fuck Andrés, you’re so bad at science- what the fuck did that even mean?”

Then his hands moved. Martín touched the buttons on Andrés’ shirt. They came apart as soon as his fingers brushed down. He looked upon criss-crossing scars, dented ribs, and what appeared to be cigarette burns. Layer over layer of damage and time. 

“I always left the science of the operation to you, didn’t I?” Andrés teased.

But he did not deny what Martín said, did not deny him the right to touch his scars. Martín grabbed his right arm next and rolled up the sleeve, leftover tears dripping onto the splatter of bruises upon the skin.

“Does it hurt?” he asked, almost whispered.

Andrés didn’t answer, nor did Martín expect him to, but he did not expect to hear what Andrés said next.

“Once the rain passes, I’d like a glimpse of Sergio. And then I’ll be gone- Martín, allow it. There are much better options for you besides myself.”

Andrés winced when Martín dug a thumb into the bruise. He heaved. “Ten years. More than ten fucking years, I thought I wasn’t good enough for you- that even if you wanted men, it wouldn’t be me. And now you have the balls to say this?”

“You always had better options than me.” Andrés smiled, the same one he always used when he wanted to reassure Martín all was fine. “But now especially… I’m not the same down there.”

He meant it as a joke, but Martín knew it was true. He wasn’t naive enough to believe Andrés’ tormentors would stop at ruining his face.

“How many times do I have to tell you?” Martín said, “I don’t give a fuck.”

He thrust the arm back at Andrés. 

Lightning slipped into the hall, brushing their faces in a sea of white. Then it was dark and thunder once more. 

It was obvious to Martín then, that he had since passed caring for how Andrés looked. So long as Andrés had the same wretched voice, the same damned eyes, the same ugly memories, Martín would remain his, whether they wanted it or not. And even if Andrés forgot it all, Martín would want him anyway. Against his better judgment, against all the anger still flowing within, he could not stop this last bit of devotion from pouring out. 

“I love you,” Martín told him, “I hate that I still do. But it’s fact, no matter what your fucking mitochondria say.”

“I used to fancy myself something grand,” Andrés said, the smile genuine, “but I was Alonso Quijano in the end, a dying delusional old man. Can you live with that, Martín?”

Martín rubbed the water from his face. He laughed again, perhaps because he’d been waiting for Andrés to ask all along.

“I’m Sancho. Can _you_ live with that, Andrés?”

He did not wait for Andrés to respond. Because it wouldn’t have mattered. Martín pulled at Andrés’ good arm and threw it around his shoulder. Then looking to the door, he said, “Get on my back. I’ll carry you to my room… and we’ll tell the others tomorrow, see what your bitch of a brother has to say.”

“Martín, there’s no need-”

“I don’t care what you need. I need this. Please, Andrés, do it- for me, if you can’t for you.”

Martín shut his eyes. And he waited, a long moment when neither of them budged. Until eventually, he felt a weight on his back, Andrés alarmingly light as his arms slipped over Martín’s shoulders, torso pressed against his spine.

He remembered another rainy evening then, a bar in Madrid or perhaps Rome, the memories blurring into every other. Martín had been lying in a pool of water, coughing up leftover blood, his nose cracked from a harsh fist. He could not for the life of him, remember why he ended up that way. He’d advanced on a man, or maybe the man had advanced on him, or maybe he had done nothing to warrant it at all.

_“Martín? Martín, can you hear me? Are you alright?”_

It had been Andrés who stumbled on him that night. He’d never seen Andrés so concerned over him before, had never seen anyone so enraged over himself.

_“Who did this to you?”_

_“Don’t ‘member.”_

Andrés had sighed and said, _“Come with me. We should take care of your handsome nose first. It would be a shame indeed if we left it crooked.”_

_“Just leave me here.”_

But Andrés hadn’t left him to wallow in shame. He’d moved Martín onto his back, and holding his draping arms, walked on, whistling out jokes and plans all the while. Martín remembered Andrés promising to treat dinner. But mostly, he recalled the warmth of skin beneath the fabric of Andrés’ suit, muddied thanks to Martín and the blood on his face. 

_“Sorry. I got your fancy jacket dirty.”_

_“It’s velvet. Saint Laurent. But any man with means would own more than one. You must think higher of me, Martín- there are plenty more jackets in my possession.”_

_“All look the same to me.”_

Andrés had scoffed. _“You sound like my brother.”_

 _“Don’t compare me to him.”_ And that of all things had made Martín laugh.

Now he walked out into the rain again, sheltered by the monastery’s arching roofs. And it was Andrés draped across his back, head lolling against Martín’s shoulder, wrapped in the dirty scarf. Andrés had passed out, he suspected, and for his sake, Martín hoped he didn’t dream. If he did, Martín wondered if he thought of that night by the bar.

“Hey,” he said, quite sure Andrés couldn’t hear, “I never believed in anything, not even your brother, but I believed in you. You were my fucking bread and wine.”

He walked on.

“So do me a favor. Believe me this time. You owe me.”

And the rain swept overhead. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Hope that was worth your time, and comments&kudos are appreciated! 
> 
> Me: Whew! I finished. Time to move on.  
> Me @ Me: But what if we continued this story??  
> Me: PAIN
> 
> I'm marking this complete, but maybe a follow up in the distant future(?)


End file.
